


Without Looking

by Intrepid_Inkweaver



Category: Original Work
Genre: Non-Linear Narrative, Nonbinary Character, Other, Romance, short scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27450313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intrepid_Inkweaver/pseuds/Intrepid_Inkweaver
Summary: The sweet, slow story of how an Artist and an Innkeeper fall in love.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Nonbinary Character, The Innkeeper/The Artist
Kudos: 1





	1. A Bundle of Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> I have. So many things I could say about this story. I am excited for where it is going. I have been working on focusing in the moment for this story, and on sensory details and images. I also want to make sure that the non-linear scenes connect in a way that makes the reader go, Ah! I see why that happened earlier!   
> It still needs a considerable amount of polish, but I want to get the whole thing written before I do my editing, and I am impatient, so I'm just posting it now. I'll edit the posting when it's done.

It is a beautiful day--the sun is shining and the blue sky has just enough fluffy white clouds to skitter about on the warm breeze. The sky reflects off of the calm waters of the harbor and even the shore has a sort of calm to it today that it lacks almost any other day. The people working are happier, calmer. There is an artist sitting upon the pier, their easel before them, painting the ships that sail into and out of the harbor, a small, secret, dreamy smile on their face. They paint to the sound of the rigging creaking on the breeze, the soft lapping of the water below, and the flapping of sails in the wind. Their painting is free and colorful and more than one individual stops in their activities to admire their work. Their smile persists through hours, and they fail to notice the small splotch of blue paint that has been charmingly smeared on their cheek.

When the evening approaches and it is time to head home, they store away their painting and palette and they fold up their easel and their happy contentment follows them as they walk through the colorful streets. They stop in the market to smell some flowers, and they toss a coin to a vendor, picking up a bundle of lavender and holding it to their face blissfully. 

The Inn is quiet when they enter; the inhabitants either out or all up in their rooms. The Innkeeper still sits in his customary spot, however, keeping an eye on his kingdom from the corner of his eye while he pens a letter at his desk. The artist approaches quietly and waits for him to look up from his writing. When he realizes they are waiting for him, he looks up and they smile, holding out the bundle of lavender. 

“I heard you say you needed some this morning, so I picked some up on the way home.” Their smile is warm, and their eyes crinkle with it on the outer edges. He notes the paint on their cheek and almost smiles fondly himself.

The Innkeeper seems surprised even underneath his usually-stoic face, and he almost stumbles over his words when he says thank you, and offers payment that the artist waves off. 

“It was no trouble, it was so unseasonably beautiful all day, staying out a little longer was hardly a burden.”

He glances out at the sunshine now streaming through the door--he would have sworn it was cloudy not ten minutes ago, and when he looks back, they have already made their way up the stairs to their room, leaving him with a brown paper bundle of flowers in his hand and a puzzled expression.


	2. Comfortable Silences

The sound of rain on the roof accompanies the crackle of the fireplace down in the Inn’s parlor. The only other sound is the soft clink of the mug when the Innkeeper puts down his tea. It is late, and the Inn’s tenants are, presumably, asleep up in their rooms, so he sits by the fireplace in his shirtsleeves with his cravat loosened and the buttons of his waistcoat undone. 

There come the now-familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the Artist comes down in their dressing gown to take the seat across from the Innkeeper by the fire. He no longer comments on the lateness of the hour, and they are no longer surprised by the cup of chamomile tea that has already been made and set out for them. They have grown used to one another, comfortable even in the silence together. Even despite the inclement weather, the parlor has become a spot of warm contentedness. Against his wishes, a smile tugs on the corner of the Innkeeper’s mouth. 

They do not always sit in companionable silence; sometimes they speak quietly into the night, other times they play chess or cards--the Artist always manages to lose a few coins at cards even when the Innkeeper is letting them win. It has become a puzzle for the ages. Tonight, though, by some unspoken agreement, they both enjoy the peace of the fire and the rain, and at some point, the Innkeeper drifts into a warm doze. He comes back to consciousness a short while later to the sound of a scratching pencil as the Artist draws in the private little leather-bound sketchbook they usually keep in their inside jacket pocket. 

When the Innkeeper stirs, the Artist glances up and smiles and closes the book, placing their pencil behind their ear. They yawn and stretch and announce their intention to finally go to bed. He wishes them a good night and he stands to gather the tea mugs to take them to the kitchen to be washed. When he passes the stairs, they have stopped near the top to watch him, and when he catches them looking, they quickly turn away. When he heads upstairs himself, he catches the scent of lavender in his room, and he touches the dried bundle on his nightstand before changing clothes and blowing out the candles. 


	3. Meetings

On a Monday morning, a Stranger comes into the Inn. Their clothes were once well-made, but they are now worn and dirty, and they carry luggage that looks like it might be all they own. They look tired and ragged and the patrons sitting in the parlor stare at them as they walk across the room. 

Despite this, they smile at the Innkeeper as they approach the counter. As they heft one of their bags further up on their shoulder, they ask how much it costs for a room for the night. When he tells them the price, they brighten and pull out a change purse to begin counting coins. When they realize that they are one coin short, their face falls for a moment before they manage to plaster a smile back on. 

“No mind,” they say, moving to swipe the coins back into their purse. 

Without thinking, the Innkeeper reaches out and stops their hand. Making eye contact, he says quietly, so the rest of the room doesn’t hear, “It’s fine. It’s only one coin.” The look of relief and open gratefulness on their face makes him flush with embarrassment as he gathers the coin to put in the lockbox.  _ It’s only one coin.  _

“Thank you, sir, so much,” they say quietly, clearly holding back tears, “I will pay you back as soon as I have it. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.” He nods quietly, not knowing what else to say, and turns to lead them to their room


	4. Be Still, My Beating Heart

The evening is bright grey and cool, and the trees all around the city have changed to a riot of vibrant colors that the Artist has taken to rendering in their paintings with great care. (The Innkeeper knows they have had offers on their latest painting, though he himself has not seen it yet.) The hour is later than when they would usually return home--the sun will set in an hour and the night streets are not kind, especially to one such as them. The Innkeeper catches himself glancing at the wall clock rather more often than he normally would. 

The door finally opens after most of the tenants have already cleared out of the parlor to admit the Artist, bundled in hat and scarf with nose and cheeks ruddy from the cold. Their eyes sparkle brightly when they see him, though and they come up to the counter, unraveling the scarf from around their face and setting their easel and art supplies on the floor. “I’ve got something for you,” they say with a grin, fishing around in their inside pocket. 

They pull out a carved wooden box, shiny and stained dark that is warm from their body heat when they hand it over to him. (The remaining tenants pretend not to watch them curiously, though the ones that have been staying at the Inn long are much used to the Artist bringing small gifts home.) The Innkeeper opens the box and finds, nestled in dark green velvet, a coin with an intricately carved anatomical heart on the front.

“Spin the gear at the bottom,” the Artist says, excitement coloring their quiet voice. He does so and watches as the heart begins to beat. At his astonished expression, the Artist’s smile widens and they ask, “Do you like it?”

“It’s--” A proper word doesn’t seem to want to come to him. Finally he says lamely, “Beautiful. But why--”

“I saw it a while back at the watchmaker’s shop a couple blocks away,” they say quickly, “and I thought you would like it.”

There is a warmth that spreads through his chest as he looks up at them, and his voice doesn’t come out quite right when he says, “I do.” 

Their smile and their voice go softer when they respond, “I’m glad.” The warmth in his chest persists for long after they have gone upstairs to put their things away, all the way into the night when he falls asleep with the scent of lavender on his pillow.


	5. Blackberry Lavender Scones

The Inn is quiet this early in the mornings, when the sun and all the tenants have yet to rise and the Innkeeper himself hasn’t been awake for more than a half an hour. He doesn’t expect anyone up at this hour, but here comes the Artist down the stairs, yawning, with their jacket thrown over their shoulder and their hair noticeably less groomed than what the Innkeeper has seen from them yet. 

He gives them a nod in greeting and states that their breakfast won’t be done for a little bit yet. “That’s fine,” they say, sounding tired and considerably less bright than he has gotten used to from them. There are dark shadows beneath the eyes. The Innkeeper’s brow furrows, but he forces it out of his mind as they go over to warm their hands by the fireplace. It’s none of his business. 

It’s several minutes later that they approach him in the kitchen to ask, “Do you need help with anything?”

He turns around to give them a questioning look. “That’s not normally how this works.” He can’t say that he’s ever been offered help from a paying customer before.

They shrug. “I need something to do with my hands or I’m going to fall asleep in the parlor,” they say with a mildly strained smile. “Didn’t sleep well last night,” they mutter quietly. He doesn’t say that falling asleep in the parlor for a little while might actually be good for them by the look of it. 

“Alright,” he says with a nod and a sigh. He gestures them further into the kitchen and tells them what he could use help with. Mostly, they keep the dishes clean as he cooks, and fetches things from the cupboard as needed. They hum while they work, and he is mildly pleased to see that whatever shadow had been sitting on their soul when they came down that morning seems to have lifted. 

When he pulls the lavender-blackberry scones from the oven, the Artist hums appreciatively. “Mm, those smell good--what is that? Lavender?” He nods, carefully placing the scones on the cooling rack. “Who are they for?”

“The tenants. I make them every month.” When they are cool enough to handle, he holds one out to them and they take it delightedly. 

It’s when he requests a bowl from a cupboard that has a history of being unstable that an entire shelf-full of dishes nearly comes clattering down on the Artist’s head. He remembers just as they begin to open the door and manages to move in quickly enough to catch the shelf before it’s contents fall. 

There is a moment in the Artist’s space where he can feel their breath and make out all the colors of their surprised eyes. He feels a blush blooming upon his cheeks so he quickly turns away, pushing the shelf into place, muttering, “I need to hire someone to fix this shelf.”

He doesn’t notice the matching blush coloring the Artist’s ears bright red. 


End file.
